The Afterlife Bar

Okay, so let's talk about death. Not your death, pigeon fuck; I'm talkin' about death as I plan it. Death is not to be feared in my world. Death might even be a good thing. Not for you, fudge sandwich--death sucks for you. Death sucks pretty much for everybody...but me.

Let's get the comedy out of the way by deflecting the frustration of body pain and lack of drive for poetic creation into some kind of only-childish, self-absorption party zone...Death is a bar! (Gee; imagine me coming up with some crappy cop out on death being some kind of black celebration.) And not just any bar, but more like my Dream Bar. Not for you, choir boy; this place is very depressing for you. But I like it.

As you walk in to the establishment, the first thing you see is a large square bar that seats 100 people; 25 people per side. You must walk through this bar area to get to the rest of the place. At this bar, people are all hunched over their drinks; moaning and crying, with shame and remorse. Everyone complains that they didn't have enough time in their human life; everyone wishes they could go back and do things differently. Lost loves are remembered with favor, and careless accidents have their tragedies multiplied. Everybody complains about something. It's a mixture of eyefuls and earfuls, with some folk occaisionally stopping their own presentations to listen to others give theirs.

You wanna know what it is? It's fucking depressing; that's what it is. I don't stop here--I move on to the back of the bar. You COULD say that first a person must go through some suffering (in the front of the bar) to get to the promised land, but then it sounds all religious--like life-to-death. Fuck that; this is a bar.

In the back of the bar is where it gets really good. I'm all alone back here. Everybody else may be all sad about being at the bar, and wishing they had done things differently before they got here; maybe they wanted some more pre-bar time, but not me. I'm GLAD to be here; I've been trying to get here for years. And I could have done many things differently before I got here, and I made a few mistakes, but so what? This is paradise in here; pinball, video golf, big screen sports tv. I don't have to answer to anybody, nobody is bugging me to be my friend, and nobody is even trying to get me to talk. Why do those other people sit up there in the front of the bar, and complain about what they could have done differently before coming here? If you didn't want to come here... oh never mind.

Those people up there crying sometimes hear me laughing and having fun; it drives them crazy. And some of them say that I'm "missing the point". I love that; missing the point. I couldn't agree more; I'm missing the point. I'll even add to your stupid premise about my missing the point, bitch. You would be correct; I would be missing the point. Ha. Would. Here's how we play it, froggy-flip; I'm not looking for the point; don't care about the point; didn't know there WAS a point, and just because there IS now a point doesn't make it any more relevant to me. If I stumbled onto the point, accidentally found the point, and somehow the point got rubbed all over my face, I would throw the point down to the ground, kick it across the room, and then ignore the point completely. I would treat the point with the negligient apathy that comes from decades and decades of never being told that there WAS a point. Oh, but wait. NOW there is a point? Fine. Taste your own medicine, Mr. Point, as I am going to abuse you for at least 4 decades; I'm going to beat you, slap you, insult you, and probably even butt-fuck you all in the name of tough love. And do you want to know why? Because you are interrupting MY time now, Mr. Point. I gave you years to make yourself known to me.

Seriously. I spent hours, everyday, for at least 20 years trying to figure out any trace of what my role was. I got nothing. Pure silence. Maybe that type of abandonment inspires most people to breed, be wasteful, selfish, and go into debt; but not me. I don't give a rat's ass about any of this shit down here. Sadistic people in power ruling over other sheeple too masochistic to rise up. Fuck the pre-bar world.

You wanna know what I like? I like pinball and golf in the back of a smokey bar, alone. I love this place; the LAST thing I would do is complain about being here. Everybody else wants to go back and squiggle through pre-bar complications; I want to stay here forever.

This is the way I see it: Your parents, if you have parents, expect you to be naturally curious. They expect you to ask questions, inquire, and check facts. Then there's also this other planned parental project about being happy to be alive; 'you're lucky to be alive, you know'. Happy and lucky; that fucking kills me. I just don't get it. And then you roll through your existence, making tons of mistakes and calling it "experience"; yawn, and then when you're done with life, you sit around a bar and bitch about what you could have done differently. If this is all there is to life, then no wonder I feel so fucking lost...

...I see only 2 possible linkings for individuals; human love, and Godly love. Human love is a joke, and Godly love cannot be proven in a lab.

I won't be sitting around in a bar, and whining about how my life could have been so much better. My life was a joke; an incomplete message leading to the start of something that was not fully planned. Half of the work order was not delivered; instructions were missing. Perhaps I was an empty vessel to be filled in by my surroundings. Possibly I was flying stand-by on a plane that never came. Do you want me to drop similes in here for another hour? Sorry. I do not care that my life could have been better or longer; what is the point of growing old anyway? I'm dead now. But I'm still easily amused. And I'm happy; you will no longer inhibit my preference to play pinball--alone.